


The Archer's Paradox

by br0wncoat



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Guilt, Insecurity, M/M, Not Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Compliant, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-02-21 10:28:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 19,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2464931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/br0wncoat/pseuds/br0wncoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint is hiding in a barn in Crimea when the world goes to shit.</p><p>Or, I attempt to answer the questions "Where the hell was Clint during Cap 2?" and "Why hasn't Coulson contacted the Avengers?" while completely ignoring the existence of Agents of SHIELD.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Clint is hiding in a barn in Crimea when the world goes to shit. He doesn't know it at the time, but three Helicarriers are smoldering in the Potomac as he sits perched in the rafters, eye-to-eye with a particularly adventurous mouse.

He's been drifting from job to adrenaline-fueled job, everything from busting up a protection racket in Chicago to an honest-to-God sea monster in Macau. It was there that he wandered into a nondescript market, looking for something to wash the taste of sea water out of his mouth, and stumbled onto a human trafficking ring.

Two broken noses, a stab wound, and one arrow to the clavicle later, Clint had the names of a gang of traffickers operating under the guise of Chinese investors scoping out farmland in the Ukraine.

Now, perched on a wooden beam the width of his thigh with a compound bow strapped to his back, Clint is starting to regret this little bout of vigilantism. He's been crawling down on occasion to drink the somewhat dubious water he'd discovered trickling from a hose, doing his business in a far corner that already smelled of lingering cow shit.

Not to mention, he has no idea who he'll turn the traffickers over to, even if they do show. He'd tried playing nice with SHIELD for a while after the whole Loki thing, but between everyone giving him the side-eye (honestly, you get possessed by one homicidal god) and his own lingering guilt ... well.

“And getting your handler killed is just bad for anyone's career,” he tells the mouse. It's the first living creature he's seen in three days of surveillance, and at the sound of his voice the mouse twitches but doesn't run away. Clint takes it as permission to carry on.

“Although sticking me with Sitwell … the man's a goddamn evil robot, I swear. I know I used to bitch about Coulson, but at least he had a sense of humor. With Sitwell it's all, 'No chatter on the comms, Hawkeye.' 'No shooting at the pigeons, Hawkeye.' Well excuse me if I've been sitting here with a rusty water tower up my ass for 14 hours and needed to make sure I was still alive, Robot Overlord, sir.”

Clint sighs, watching dust particles float in a beam of fading sunlight. There's something poetic there, he's sure – some comparison to his own decaying soul, maybe – but he's too tired to contemplate it. It feels like he's been tired for years.

“The thing is,” Clint confides, “I know I deserved it. I thought, for a few hours there, that the Avengers could be a great thing. My … my fucking redemption, you know?”

The mouse twitches its nose (which Clint will take as a sympathetic gesture. He's pretty fucking short on those lately, all right?) and Clint laughs bitterly. “But without Coulson … And here I am, back to being a goddamn mercenary.”

Coulson – Phil; he can call him Phil here in the privacy of his head, something he'd only dared do aloud a couple times over the years – was supposed to be the one that held them together. He'd been there when everyone else at SHIELD thought Hawkeye and Black Widow were nothing more than two sociopathic killers (and oh, how things have come full circle). He'd wrangled Stark, something Clint privately thinks belongs at the top of Phil's list of accomplishments. He'd chatted with the god of thunder, cool as if he were discussing his grocery list. No one else could ever be calm, confident (and possibly crazy) enough to babysit the Avengers. And so they'd drifted apart.

He'd forgotten just how boring it could be, this solo gig. After gods and monsters and Tony frickin' Stark, the lone wolf sniper act leaves him feeling empty, unfulfilled. Lonely. He'd gotten so used to having a voice in his ear, cool and calm and delightfully snarky, and now the silence is oppressive.

“Still, better alone than Sitwell,” he says aloud. “You know those assholes had me on probation? Sent me on milk runs and shit, nothing high security. I guess they were waiting to see if I'd go all glowy-eyed and homicidal again, never mind that I'd just helped fight off an invasion of bug-aliens. Natasha trusted me. _Captain America_ trusted me! But then they fuck off to D.C., and what do I get? Sitwell! If Coulson had been - “

The words dry up in his throat, bitter and useless. He rubs at his eyes (it's the hay, damn it – he's been allergic to that shit since the circus; Hawkeye doesn't cry) and wonders when that name will stop feeling like a knife in the gut.

The truth is, he might have dealt with the boredom and the distrust, taking it as penance, if he hadn't started to worry for his safety. Two months or so after New York, he'd been in the field with a couple baby agents, Sitwell in his ear, on what should've been strictly a surveillance gig. Instead, there'd been an ambush, a bullet in Clint's thigh, and his backup running for the hills. Even now, he isn't sure whether they panicked or left him there on purpose.

The mouse inches closer, and Clint digs in his pocket for the remains of some God-awful Chinese protein bar he'd liberated from the shady market. He breaks off a piece and nudges it toward the mouse before taking a bite of his own. It tastes vaguely like salty cardboard, and the mouse gives his own chunk a suspicious sniff before backing away. “I know, buddy. Believe me, if I could go on a burger run - “

The door to the barn rattles, and Clint has an arrow drawn and nocked before the mouse can scurry away. If it's one of those friggin' stray cats again, he's gonna be pissed.

The door swings open, and a woman stands silhouetted in the setting sun. Clint has to blink a few times to make sure he isn't hallucinating.

“Clint,” Natasha says briskly. “Come down from there. I have some things to tell you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a bit of violence, I guess, although it's mostly off screen because I hate writing action. :)

“Holy - “ Clint lowers his bow, gaping at the assassin in the doorway. Natasha raises a judgmental eyebrow and points at the floor. Clint doesn't quite grin, but he feels his lips twitching into a shape they haven't formed in months.

“Lovely to see you too,” he quips, dropping from his perch with a grunt and a small explosion of hay dust. “I don't suppose there's any point in asking how you're here, so let's go with why.”

Natasha scoffs. “Have you forgotten who taught you how to disappear? And if you are going to travel under an alias, _Francis_ , make sure it isn't something anyone with half a brain could figure out.”

Clint shrugs. “I didn't figure SHIELD would waste much time looking for me. We didn't exactly part on the best terms.” Something petty in him boils over, makes him add, “Which you'd know if - “ He breaks off at the look on Natasha's face, part anger and something more unwelcome, like pity.

He paces to the other side of the barn, bracing himself against a rusty green tractor while he tries to reign in his own emotions. It wasn't her fault; he knows that. SHIELD agents go where they're told. But Natasha is his best friend, the one person he'd trusted when he was barely back in his right mind. He'd needed her, in a way he rarely allows himself to need anyone, and look how that had turned out.

“Clint,” Natasha murmurs, materializing at his side. “If I had known … You could have come to me. Idiot.”

She manages to make the insult sound affectionate somehow, and Clint shakes his head fondly, turning to meet her searching gaze. He opens his mouth – to argue or explain, he isn't sure – but Natasha stops him with a raised hand.

“Later. There are many things you need to know, but the most important is - “

She breaks off at the sound of an approaching car and Clint's low curse. He scrambles for his perch in the rafters as Natasha disappears soundlessly into the shadows. A minute later, an aging Volkswagen rumbles to a stop just inside the open barn doors.

The car doors open, expelling a twitchy Asian man in a business suit and a burly white guy dragging a shivering teenage girl by the arm. Burly Guy snaps something in … Ukrainian? Russian? that Business Suit repeats in tremulous Mandarin, while Clint spares a moment to regret his lack of formal education.

Still, it's obvious enough what's going on, just like it's obvious that more players will be arriving any minute, and this poor girl is going to be caught in the middle of quite the clusterfuck. Clint wishes desperately for a comm, or that he could at least see Natasha's face. Act now and free the girl? Let her be taken and follow the guys who come to collect her? There's a chance here to find the center of this operation, but goddamn he hates risking civilians.

Clint's about to say fuck it and reach for an arrow when another car comes creeping down the path to the barn. Two more men climb out, one with a neat, graying beard and a suit that looks like it costs more than Clint's entire wardrobe, the other clearly a bodyguard. There's more incomprehensible chatter, and Clint's seriously considering shooting someone out of sheer boredom when a noise from the doorway draws everyone's attention.

Natasha staggers in (which … what? How did she even get outside?!), hair mussed and makeup streaked with tears. The leather jacket she'd been wearing is missing, and her T-shirt is strategically torn at the neck and shoulders. Even Clint, who views Natasha more as a sister (albeit with less pigtail pulling and more threats of bodily harm) than anything, is frozen for a moment at the sight.

“Zdrávstvujte … hello?” Her voice is thick with an affected accent, and she hunches over on herself, one arm cradled protectively against her chest. “Please … I have accident - “

Burly Guy cuts her off with an angry shout (and Clint might not speak the language but he knows a 'What the fuck?' when he hears it), but Grey Beard is assessing her with hungry eyes. It's not sexual so much as it reminds Clint of the way Coulson used to look at his car, and it's pretty clear that this guy is the procurer of the bunch. Grey Beard edges smoothly past Burly Guy, extending a hand and saying something that has Nat's eyes widening with hope and relief (and he's gonna buy her a fucking Oscar for this performance – Stark probably knows someone who has one).

Grey Beard wraps an arm around Natasha's shoulders, and she darts a glance Clint's way even as she seems to sag into the other man's embrace. It's all Clint can do to stop himself cackling gleefully – Natasha hates being touched – as he brings an arrow to full draw. It's only a matter of seconds to take down Burly Guy and the Asian dude, but by the time he looks up Grey Beard is on his face in the dust, one of Nat's boots on the back of his neck. The bodyguard is sprawled nearby, unmoving and silent. The girl seems to be frozen to the spot, which is just as well.

Clint drops to the ground as Natasha yanks Grey Beard's head up. His nose is bleeding, but he's mostly unharmed, if the steady stream of bitching in both English and Russian is anything to go by.

Clint looks up at Natasha, unable to help the grin taking over his face. She starts shaking her head before he can even open his mouth.

“No.”

“But Nat,” Clint wheedles, “it's the perfect - “

“No.”

“ - opportunity, and I could really use a laugh, come on - “

“No, absolutely - “

Clint ignores her, squatting down next to Grey Beard, smile still stretching his face as he says, “Take us to your leader!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, folks. I don't so much have a beta as a friend who's kind enough to read over these when she has time, but she's sort of disappeared and I finally decided to go ahead and post.
> 
> Also, spoilers for Cap 2 ahead.

Grey Beard spits out a mouthful of blood and stares at Clint, unamused. Villains these days. No sense of humor.

“Is it just me,” Clint muses, “or are bad guys a lot less talkative than they used to be?”

“Eh.” Nat shrugs. “At least there's no monologuing.”

The girl, who to this point has been cowering in a corner, takes a cautious step forward and says something in Russian (Ukrainian?) that makes Grey Beard snap. She scrambles away, falling hard in a pile of hay and hiding behind a curtain of dark hair. Grey Beard kicks at Natasha, snarling something (which Clint doesn't have to be a linguist to identify as abuse) at the girl, who begins to cry. Loudly.

“Oh my god,” Clint groans over the racket. “Can you tell this asshat to fuck off back to the motherland? I haven't slept for days and this shit's giving me a headache. Huh ... is there a word for asshat in Russian?”

Natasha shoots him a supremely unimpressed look and smashes Grey Beard's face back into the dirt. He quiets, moaning, and Nat turns to speak softly to the girl.

“Her name is Sofia,” Nat says a minute later. “She is from here, but these men told her they could give her a better life. A job, an apartment with other girls in Beijing.” She looks _pissed_ , and Clint has a sudden urge to find a bomb shelter and wait out the carnage.

Instead, he says, “So what do we do? Normally I'd say follow her to wherever this guy was taking her, but she's like 12.”

“Fifteen,” Nat says, “and I don't think we should handle this one.”

“Are you kidding me?” Clint shouts. “Who knows how many girls are - “

“I didn't say we let them go,” Nat interrupts calmly. “But we have things to take care of, and there are other people who can deal with this.”

“What, are you going to call SHIELD?” Clint scoffs. “I'm sure they'll drop everything to – Hey!” He rubs his ear, glaring at Natasha. “What is it with you and hitting me in the head?”

“Clint. Where have you been? I thought you'd at least know the basics.“ Natasha drags a hand over her face, which is as close to emotional as she gets in public.

“I've been in a barn. Literally. In a barn.” Clint waves his arms to demonstrate. “The cable package here really sucks. And the basics of what? What could possibly be so important?”

“SHIELD,” Nat says grimly. “It's been compromised by Hydra. Since the beginning, apparently. It goes all the way to the top. Pierce, Sitwell - “

“I fucking knew it!”

“But that's not all, Clint.” Natasha looks oddly gentle, and that worries him more than anything. “I released all of SHIELD's classified documents.”

Clint's brain grinds to a halt. There's some part of him that's not surprised about SHIELD. He's been screwed over enough in his life that complete trust is hard to come by, and he was never naive enough to think an organization of spies was totally on the up-and-up. This, though … He's not exactly ashamed of his past, but it was a lot easier pretending to be a superhero when only a handful of people knew his long list of misdeeds.

“I know,” Nat says, touching his arm. And the thing is, she does know. If anyone understands the quest for redemption, it's Black Widow. Anyone else, he would've taken their head off for the platitude. “The thing is, I didn't have time to look at much, but the first thing I did was look up all the files on Coulson. I'd had these suspicions for a while, things I'd overheard, but - “

“Excuse me,” Grey Beard chimes in weakly. (And what the fuck; he's been able to speak English all this time, and he picks _now_ to interrupt?!) “I'm sure we can come to some sort of arrangement here, if only you'll allow me to - “

“Oh hell no, Gandalf.” Clint jabs a finger at Grey Beard. “You had your chance to talk.”

“Clint.” Natasha darts a glance to Sofia, who has thankfully trailed off into the occasional sniffle. “Maybe this isn't the best time. I should call - “

“What you should do,” Clint says through clenched teeth, “is tell me what you know. Because if you say what I think you're about to say … “ And God, it's like a dagger in his own heart even as it's all his dreams come true, because how could Phil leave him hanging like that? Does he even care where Clint is, if he's alive or dead or gibbering in a padded room? “Coulson?”

“Is alive.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sometimes Clint misses being a little kid. Not that he had much of a childhood, really, but right about now it'd be great if it was socially acceptable to throw a tantrum. Just scream out his frustration, or better yet, throw something (all that's really handy is his bow, but he can probably manage to pick up Asian Dude, even if he is dead weight at this point).

Unfortunately, he's an adult, and there's a bloodied criminal, a weepy teenager, and a terrifying assassin all staring at him with varying degrees of impatience. Even so, he can't think of anything more eloquent to say than _fuck him anyway_ , so for once in his life he remains silent.

“Look, Clint.” Natasha suddenly has a cell phone in hand, and Clint loses a moment to wondering how it fit in those pants. He might not look at her that way, but Jesus Christ, he's seen less impressive sleight-of-hand at the circus. “I have some contacts in the region. They can be here in less than an hour, and I promise you, this will be taken care of. But my ride is still waiting at the airport, and I think you need to come with me.”

Clint plops down in the dirt to think. It's dark now, the only illumination coming from the two dusty headlights on the Beemer, and it's so tempting to just disappear into the shadows and hide from this mess. Apart from _fuck him anyway_ , he hates to leave a mission unwrapped, and he can only imagine what kind of people Natasha's “contacts” are likely to be. So great, Coulson's alive. It's nothing to do with him. It's been months, and obviously Coulson didn't want him to know. He opens his mouth to tell Natasha this, but somehow what comes out is, “Your ride?”

“A Stark Industries jet.” Nat grins, a rare, genuine smile that makes her look ridiculously young. She's seen a lot – they both have – but SHIELD tends more toward functionality than luxury.

Clint can only imagine what kind of plane Tony Stark flies around in. He's having visions of stripper poles and a swimming pool when the words really sink in. “Wait, what? Why would Stark give you a jet?”

Nat waves him off, like this isn't an important thing to know. “They made Pepper cry. This is actually pretty far down on the list of ridiculous things Stark might have done. Now, can I please make this phone call so we can get going?”

“Get going for _what_?” Clint half-shouts in exasperation. “So Coulson is alive; what do you want me to do about it? The days when I might have thrown a fucking parade are pretty far past.”

The look Natasha pins him with makes him wish he'd gone scurrying for the shadows after all. “What part of 'I released all of SHIELD's confidential files' do you not understand? He's in danger. We all are. Every undercover op, every alias, every person we've killed … it's all out there, Clint. Stark's offered us sanctuary until we can figure this out, and I think it's a good idea. Safety in numbers.”

“Right,” Clint says faintly. He's trying not to think about all the gang members and arms dealers and terrorists that are probably howling for his blood right about now, and he's suddenly very pleased that he didn't finish that protein bar. “Shit.” That sums things up nicely, he thinks. “So I'll finish up here, and I'll meet you back in New York. I'll be fine. I don't think I've pissed off anyone in this part of the world for at least six months.” And it'll give him time to get his head together, because if he sees Coulson right now he can't promise that he'll be responsible for his actions.

Natasha's face softens. It's actually pretty hilarious that she's tyring to be comforting with her boot on the back of some guy's neck, but he has a feeling something really bad must be coming. “Right now, all I know is where Coulson was supposed to be three days ago. No one's heard from him since all this went down. He might have gotten word and gone off grid, but Clint … as far as we know, Coulson is missing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this is even shorter than usual; I'm so sorry. My only excuse is that I've spent the last few days doing nothing but napping and waiting for my next dose of cold medicine.
> 
> In other news, I'm wondering if anyone out there has the time and inclination to act as a sort of sounding board for me on this story. I don't so much need help with the technical aspects of writing, but I could really use someone to bounce ideas off of, and who would tell me if anyone was too out of character or if the story is going off the rails.


	5. Chapter 5

Forty-seven minutes later, Clint is sprawled across the backseat of a rusty Crown Victoria, peering at mile after mile of undernourished wheat. Any other time, he'd be laughing obnoxiously about Russian mobsters driving around in old cop cars, but Nat had told him (like three times - you'd think she didn't trust him or something) to behave himself. As promised, Natasha's contacts had arrived and efficiently carted off Sofia and the assorted baddies before providing a ride to the airfield.

He feels like ten kinds of shit for abandoning his mission, even if it was a self-imposed one, but Coulson had his back for years. No matter how much he might want to punch the guy, he can't just leave him out there twisting in the wind. Anyway, he's pretty sure the girl was just as afraid of him and Nat as she was of the bad guys, which doesn't exactly make him feel better.

When they finally arrive, Clint seriously considers demanding to be taken back to the barn. He's jumped out of planes before – and off buildings and water towers and cliffs, and that one time with the Cristo Redentor – but he'd at least like to make it off the ground, thanks. The one runway is decently preserved but all of 800 meters long, and there's not so much a terminal as what looks like someone's weekend fishing shack. The jet practically towers over it.

The jet, though … Clint's piloted some SHIELD aircraft in his day, but this is like comparing a cut of Wagyu beef to Spam. She's a gleaming white, tasteful blue stripes accenting the belly and wings. There's a guy in a suit standing at the bottom of the steps, but Clint rushes by, eager to see inside.

There's half a dozen fairly standard – if wide and cushy – airliner seats, grouped around gleaming wood tables. Father back, an actual couch faces a giant widescreen television. “It pulls out into a bed,” Natasha tells him, and he really, really doesn't want to think about Tony Stark and the mile-high club. He's making a beeline for the cockpit when Nat grabs his arm and herds him toward a seat.

“Briefing now, playtime later.”

“But Nat,” Clint whines, and he'll deny to his dying day making grabby hands toward the cockpit, where Suit Guy has just disappeared after closing the door. A moment later, he hears the engines start up.

“Sorry,” Natasha says, almost managing to sound sincere. She sits across the table from him and slaps down a file. “These are the details of the op Coulson was on. Fury says - “

“Wait, what?” Clint half-rises, banging his knee on the table and earning himself an unimpressed look. “I thought you said Fury was dead!”

“Ah.” Natasha actually looks regretful this time. “I didn't get to that part before we were interrupted.”

“Oh great,” Clint says sarcastically, “there's more?” Like the goddamn Winter Soldier wasn't enough. No, Phil is alive, and Fury is dead-but-not, and Clint just wants to take a fucking nap.

“There's more,” Nat agrees. “But come on, the file first. Coulson has spent the last few months acting as a sort of military _attaché_ in Libya - “

“Aw, fucking desert, man,” Clint mutters. “Snakes and scorpions and sand in places no one should ever - “

“Clint!”

Natasha looks well and truly pissed, so Clint sighs and settles back into his seat, making a little _go on_ gesture.

“A few tweaks to his actual Army records, and _voilà_! Colonel Coulson, Defense Intelligence Agency. Unfortunately, his real identity is now out there for anyone who can use the Internet, and as I've said, he hasn't checked in for three days.”

“Well yeah,” Clint says slowly, “because SHIELD doesn't exist anymore. Maybe he just couldn't get through. I mean, is there some poor asshole sitting in the smoldering ruin of HQ answering phones?”

“Clint, this is Coulson we're talking about. Do you really think that somewhere in his brain there's not a plan for what to do if SHIELD is compromised? Anyway, Fury has tried to contact him personally, and no luck. We're the only ones he trusts to go after him.” Natasha gives him a pitying look. “I know you were hoping this would turn out to be nothing and you could go back to hiding - “

“I wasn't hiding! I was helping the little guy, making the world safer for - “

“Hiding,” Nat repeats, “but we're doing this. Now, we've got about three hours to touchdown. Maybe you should use that time to take a nap. Or, I don't know” - she looks pointedly at his week-old stubble and dusty clothes - “make yourself look less like a homeless person.”

“Whatever,” Clint says around a yawn. He fiddles with the buttons on his armrest, and holy shit, the seat lays all the way down! “I make this look good.”

Still … he pulls out his phone, punching in an alarm for two and a half hours from now. Coulson could be bleeding from the head in a muddy ditch and he'd still have a spotless suit – it's like his own superpower – so it wouldn't kill him to clean up. Just a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I feel like the FBI is going to come knocking on my door about all the time I've spent Googling spies and Islamic militant groups and airplanes. But hey, there might actually be some Coulson in the next chapter.
> 
> Also, if anyone is curious, this is the plane I was basing Tony's on: http://www.businessinsider.com/photos-tour-the-65-million-gulfstream-g650-2013-7?op=1


	6. Chapter 6

The plane coasts to a stop on the (legit, freshly paved) runway just as Clint is slipping into a clean shirt. He'd found an assortment of toiletries and a change of clothes in the bathroom, and he figures he looks about as good as he ever does. He'd considered briefly that Stark might keep an emergency stash of clothing on the plane, but while they're both somewhat altitude-challenged, he seriously doubts Stark's shirts would fit him so perfectly in the arms. Which means Nat had been sure all along that he'd cave, but he can't really complain when he no longer smells of three-day-old sweat and cow shit.

The pilot emerges a moment later, throwing open the cabin door to reveal a limo pulling alongside the plane.

"Uh, not that I'm complaining about the door-to-door service here," Clint says, jogging down the steps with a jaunty salute to the pilot, "but are we sneaking into the country?"

"Stark Industries has contacts here," Nat replies. She's produced a backpack from somewhere, and she tosses it into the backseat before shoving Clint into the car. "Also, we're allies with the country ... technically."

"So what, you're saying if we're caught, we _probably_ won't be shot?"

Natasha just grins wolfishly before tapping on the partition, and Clint forces himself to relax as the limo speeds away. Honestly, this is probably the least dangerous incursion into another country he's ever made, but he's practically vibrating with anxiety. He's not kidding himself that he'd actually put Coulson and SHIELD behind him, but he'd been trying to accept his new life. This kind of thing, getting his hopes up ... it only ever ends in more pain. The last person to disappear from his life and turn up again with a bunch of promises had been his brother, and - those are not thoughts he needs to be having right now.

Clint rests his forehead against the cool glass of the window, angling his face into the path of an air conditioning vent. It had only been a couple feet between the plane and the limo, but it's at least a hundred degrees outside and he can feel the sweat gathered on his forehead. There's a city in the distance, all sand-colored skyscrapers and glass towers, but he can't quite work up the energy to ask exactly where they're going.

"Hey."

He rolls his head to the side and peers at Natasha, who has peeled off her leather jacket but otherwise looks cool and composed. She's got this squinty little line between her eyebrows, though, and Clint knows she's concerned.

"You know he has a good reason," she says. Straight to the point, as always. "He didn't know what you were going through. _I_ didn't even know." She shoots him a glare, suggesting that this is his fault, which ... maybe she's got a point there. He did sort of disappear, and it wasn't like she had bountiful free time. Still.

"Still." He wants to shrug and play it off, but she'd see right through him. Anyway, it's kind of nice to have someone to talk to who can actually respond. "He had to know I'd - we'd - be upset that he was dead. I've known him longer than I ever knew my parents, at this point. Er, not that I think of him like a parent."

"Jesus, I hope not," Nat says with a little shudder. "You know I love you, but I don't want to hear about your little kinks."

Clint flounders wordlessly, lips parted in shock, as Natasha cracks and starts laughing at him.

"I hate you," he says petulantly, but he can feel a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Yeah, yeah. Pull yourself together, Francis; here's our hotel."

He looks up in surprise. The building they're pulling up to is nice, above Clint's standards but likely well below Stark's. This probably isn't saying much, he considers, seeing as he'd just spent a few days in a barn. At any rate, Nat seems happy enough. He freezes with his hand on the door. "Is he ... ?"

"No." She shoves the backpack at him and ushers him out the door. He shoulders it with a sigh and trails along behind her as she has a quick conversation with the - English speaking, thank God - hotel clerk and then leads the way to a ground-level room.

"Are you ever going to explain what's going on here?" Clint complains. "Do you actually need me here for this? Am I just your plucky sidekick? What does plucky even mean, anyway? I'm not sure I like the sound of it."

"Clint!" Natasha pulls him into the room and shuts the door behind them. "You're babbling. I know it's your coping mechanism, but I need you to shut up now."

Clint resists the urge to stick his tongue out at her and flops down on one of the double beds. The room is all tan and pastel blue, and it's oddly soothing. Nat pulls a folder out of the backpack and tosses it onto his stomach.

"Read that, if you want, although most of the intel is a few days old. I tried to get word to Coulson that we were coming, but I have no way to know if he received it. Short version: the country is divided between two rival factions of former rebels, who have established competing governments. One of them took over Tripoli" - she waves a hand to encompass the hotel room, and Clint guesses that's meant to answer the question of where the hell they are - "and forced out the prime minister, who swears he's going to take the city back by force. If that wasn't enough, there's Islamic militant groups taking advantage of the instability to expand their training camps."

"So Coulson was here as, what, some kind of negotiator?" Clint asks doubtfully. That really doesn't sound like Phil's kind of gig, although what does he know anymore? He hadn't thought lying about his death was very Coulson-like, either.

Nat shrugs. "Close enough. But the thing is, he's been on the wrong side of most of these people at one point or another, in his years with SHIELD. I'd really like to get him out, just in case. I have an ... acquaintance who's involved in these talks, and he's meeting us for drinks in a couple hours. Hopefully we'll find out more then. In the meantime, I'm going to take a shower. Try not to freak out too much while I'm gone."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very simplified version of what's going on in Libya. I was afraid adding more details would bog down those of you who aren't history/politics geeks like me, but feel free to comment if you think it needs more (or less).
> 
> I swear there will be Coulson in the next chapter. I spent a week with my mother at the hospital and only got the chance to write intermittently, so I wanted to get out what I had before y'all forgot this story existed. :)


	7. Chapter 7

“All right.”

Nat's voice is strangely muffled, and Clint glances up from the television to find her bent over, wrapping a towel around her dripping hair.

“My contact, Amir, is meeting us in the lobby at 7:00 local time. It's …" She flips her head up, scanning the room for a clock, before her gaze lands on the TV. “It's 6:00 now, so … what the hell are you watching?”

“Ah. Well, as it turns out, there's only one English-language channel here. And since the only words I know in Arabic are 'bathroom', 'food', and 'go fuck yourself' …“ He trails off, gesturing at the screen. He's pretty sure he's been lost in some kind of glassy-eyed fugue since the moment he'd turned it on, and now he can't seem to look away. Currently, a woman in a wedding veil, strapless bra and poofy skirt is screaming at her mother to 'shut the fuck up and don't talk unless I tell you to fucking talk.' Clint knows he didn't have a very traditional upbringing, but he's pretty sure no part of this should count as reality.

Natasha just blinks at him, then seems to decide to pretend the last minute didn't happen. “Amir is a diplomat – “

“What,” Clint interrupts, “in the same way that Coulson is?”

Nat smirks. “Maybe. Anyway, they will have been running in some of the same circles. Now, do you want to take an actual shower, or are you good?”

“I'm … wait, why did you make me clean up on the plane when you knew we were coming to a hotel with a shower?” Clint asks, indignant. The lavatory had been pretty swank, for being on an airplane, but it hadn't exactly been easy washing up in the little sink.

“To keep you occupied, of course,” Nat says. “I know you. You'd have talked yourself out of this and tried to jump off the plane if I hadn't distracted you.”

Clint huffs, although he can't really argue. “I'm fine. Squeaky clean, not jumping anywhere."

Natasha plops down beside him, rubbing vigorously at her hair before tossing the wet towel in his face. Clint knocks it away, scowling halfheartedly. "Look," she says, "there's not a lot of time for a heart-to-heart here, but it's okay that you're in love with him."

"I - what?" Clint squawks. "I'm not ... I can't ..."

"Please," Nat says. "Even if you weren't my friend, I read people for a living. You faced worse shit when you first joined SHIELD than you did there at the end, but you actually _ran away_ when you thought Coulson was dead. And I know you're not having some kind of gay crisis, because I've heard all about your teenage years. So why can't you?"

"Because!" Clint shouts. "Everyone I love leaves, okay? They betray me, or they die, or they just find more important things to -" His voice catches in his throat. Since he's already being an actual five-year-old girl, he figures he might as well carry on. "Anyway, he had that woman, the cellist."

"Who wasn't real, Clint. Jesus, what kind of spy are you?" Natasha throws her hands up in exasperation. "Coulson made her up to keep people off his back. Pepper was always wanting to set him up with someone, so he finally just lied and said he was taken. Don't you think if she existed you'd have noticed her calling, or seen a picture, or something?"

"I ... didn't really think about it," he admits. "I didn't want to think about it. But why didn't you tell me?"

"I thought you knew! And you might have, if you hadn't spent all your time avoiding Coulson when you weren't working. I don't know why I didn't see this sooner, honestly. You always hide from your feelings." Nat stands up and stalks over to her bag, rummaging for a moment before emerging with a makeup kit.

"Look, it doesn't matter," Clint says. "Even if you were right, which I'm not saying you are, he just ran off and let us think he was dead. I understand about secrets and mission security and all that bullshit, but this is just ... too much."

"I get it, okay? I do." Natasha's leaning over a mirror, putting on eyeliner with the tip of her tongue poking out of her mouth. It's kind of incongruously cute for a woman who could kill him with one hand. "But maybe just give him a chance to explain. I think you owe him that much. We both do. Now go do something about your hair; you look like a hedgehog."

They walk into the hotel lobby five minutes early, and Clint scans the room for threats. Nat has covered her hair in an attempt to blend in, but she's still the only woman there. The rest of the patrons look like businessmen, mostly, and he allows himself to relax a little. There's a small restaurant tucked away in an adjoining room, and when Clint gives the (fake) name Nat had told him to use, they're led to a table already occupied by two men. One is dark-skinned and going silver at the temples, wearing a sort of long, white tunic and khaki pants. The other is bent over a menu, pale wrists peeking out from the sleeves of a pinstriped suit coat. Clint's pulse picks up, and he _knows_ , even before the two men look up at their approach and he sees piercing blue eyes.

Coulson.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, two chapters this week! And uh ... Coulson might not speak, but he's there. That counts, right? 
> 
> Also, I'm aware that, even without taking into consideration the sketchy telecommunications in war zones, you probably can't watch American TV in Libya. But I just couldn't help myself. I once spent a weekend in a hotel in Germany where the only English channel was, inexplicably, MTV, and I ended up watching a marathon of Rock of Love with Brett Michaels.


	8. Chapter 8

Coulson looks nearly as shocked as Clint feels. (Which is to say, he's allowed one eyebrow to rise slightly, but Clint's seen him hold a stoic expression while rappelling down a burning building.) Clint takes a moment to bask in vindictive pleasure; it's nice not to be the only one at a complete loss. He looks good, if a little underweight, and he's wearing that damnable pair of black-rimmed glasses that always make Clint forget his own name.

The other man - Amir - stands and pulls out a chair for Natasha, who accepts with a surprising lack of complaint. “Sit, my friend, sit!” he says, waving Clint into the remaining chair (which happens to be next to Coulson; fuck his life). “I was asking this morning about your missing comrade, and the next thing I know – well, it has been a long time since someone got the better of me.”

Amir laughs, genuine and affable and the complete opposite of … pretty much everyone Clint knows. Then again, Clint thinks, maybe that's a mask in its way, the same as Nat's stone-cold-bitch routine or Coulson's stoicism. Speaking of Coulson … Clint sneaks a sideways look, and the man is still staring at his menu like it has the secrets of the universe printed on it.

“The good Colonel is modest,” Amir continues, “but there was a moment where I feared for my life, before I told him we have a mutal friend. Then he insisted on coming to this meeting, and here we are.”

“So I see,” Natasha says, her face pleasantly neutral. Clint knows that face. He was on the receiving end of that face once, not long after they'd first met, right before Nat tried to kill him with a high heel. Coulson is in so much trouble. He'd be kinda gleeful about it, if not for the steadily building rage. “It seems,” she continues, “that the good Colonel was not really missing after all.”

Coulson finally looks up, smiling blandly. “Well, you can't be too careful.”

Clint's imagined, off and on through the last several months, what he'd do if he could see Coulson again. There'd been the Lifetime-movie ending, with the big dramatic declaration and teary kisses. There'd been the HBO ending, with a an epic rescue followed by hot sweaty sex. Right now, it's looking more Ultimate Fighter, because Clint seriously wants to punch the shit out of the man. How he can just sit there looking so unruffled …

“Although now that you're here, I think I'd like to take some vacation days,” Coulson adds. “That is, if you have the time.”

Then Clint takes a closer look, and his blood cools to a simmer, because Coulson might be holding it together but he's not okay. His left hand is white-knuckled on the menu, and instead of his usually impeccable posture, he's a little hunched over. His eyes are bloodshot behind the glasses, the blue gone dull and glassy.

Nat starts to respond, but a waiter appears, flipping open his notepad with a question directed at Amir. Clint wants badly to jump up and yell something along the lines of 'Fuck no, we're not ordering; time to run away!', but no matter what Nat thinks, he does have some manners. Or a sense of self-preservation, whatever.

Nat kicks him under the table, and when he looks up she hisses, “For Christ's sake, act normal!”

He glares back at her, because he _knows_ , okay; he's not a complete idiot. There might be people watching them, or following Coulson, and bolting for the door is pretty much a textbook example of how not to be a secret agent. Of the two of them, though, Nat's the only one with any real undercover training. Clint mostly only has patience when he knows he's going to get to shoot something when the sitting around part is over.

The waiter finally leaves, and Amir looks at the two of them curiously. “Is there trouble?”

Coulson and Natasha share a look, during which Nat somehow manages to communicate with her eyebrows that Amir can be trusted. (It's a talent.) Clint, for his part, is staring at the leafy centerpiece and biting his tongue to keep from saying anything. “I think,” Natasha says slowly, “that it would be best if we cut our visit to your country a little short. The Colonel here needs to return home.”

“Ah.” Amir nods, still smiling, but there's something shrewd now in his dark eyes. “In that case, let us share this drink, and then we shall get you on your way.”

As if on cue, the waiter reappears, carrying a tray laden with four small glasses of dark, thick liquid. Clint sniffs curiously at his glass; it smells simultaneously bitter and sweet, and is definitely not the hard liquor he was hoping for. He's peering at it dubiously when he catches sight of Coulson out of the corner of his eye. He's sipping his own drink, but Clint can see the beginnings of a smirk hidden behind the glass. He knows exactly what Clint's thinking, the asshole. Clint kind of wants to throw his drink at him. In the past, he'd loved making Coulson smile, hoarding all of his different expressions in a sort of mental encyclopedia. Now though, it's just pissing him off, like everything seems to lately.

“Are you not a tea drinker?” Amir asks, gesturing at Clint's untouched beverage. “I am afraid we do not drink alcohol here, but this is a local favorite.”

Clint jerks to attention, realizing he'd been not-so-covertly staring at Coulson, and takes a tentative sip of the tea. It's sweet – more of a syrup than a liquid – and pretty much the furthest thing from refreshing. He wonders if they have booze in Egypt, and how long it would take him to sneak across the border.

Fifteen minutes later, Clint has managed to choke down most of the tea (manners, thank you very much). He's just about to suggest they hit the road when Amir finally slides his glass away and stands. “Well,” Amir says, “I do hate to see you go, but I believe you have a plane to catch?” He looks pointedly at Coulson, who has regressed to a full-on slouch and looks somehow even paler.

They all rise, Natasha and Amir exchanging hasty and vaguely mysterious goodbyes, but Clint's eyes are on Coulson. Having struggled to stand upright, he's now clutching at the edge of the table and swaying slightly. Clint reaches out and grabs his (thin, Jesus) bicep, and that's the only thing that keeps Coulson from hitting the floor a moment later, when his knees buckle and his body goes limp in Clint's arms.

  
  


  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should point out that, although there are a couple years between The Avengers and Cap 2, in my little 'verse here it's more like several months. Mostly because I feel like after two years Clint would either have got his shit together or completely self-destructed, so I needed it to be shorter.
> 
> Also, I noted in the tags that this is not AoS compliant, but I just wanted to reiterate that none of that is happening here - no new team, no "Tahiti". It really pissed me off that Coulson would just go on his merry way without being concerned that everyone still thought he was dead, and I gave up watching halfway through the first season.


	9. Chapter 9

Clint staggers, thrown off balance by his sudden armload of senior agent. Natasha and Amir dart forward – to catch Coulson or block the view, Clint doesn't know or care, because those blue eyes are blinking slowly at him, glasses slightly askew. Clint's mind shorts out, unable to process much beyond _thank God he's conscious_ and _fuck, he's too skinny_ and _hoooo shit I'm holding Coulson in my arms_.

Coulson visibly gathers himself, stoic mask sliding back into place as he straightens and disentangles himself from Clint's grasp. “I apologize,” he says stiffly, smoothing his jacket back into place. “I've been … unwell.”

It's all Clint can do to keep from saying _Dead! You've been dead!_ Although … he doesn't know how long it takes to recover from a spear through the chest, but Coulson probably shouldn't be out playing secret agent man right now. Coulson might be all about rules and regulations in general, but they've ended up side-by-side in medical a couple times, and it was practically a race to see who could escape first.

Clint glances around the room – they somehow haven't garnered much attention, but it's definitely time to leave. “Natasha,” he says quietly, “think you could call for the car now?”

“Already waiting outside,” she replies. “I had the driver gather our things from the room, as well.” She glances at Coulson. “Like he said, can't be too careful. It would be nice to know if we're expecting company, however.”

Coulson squints at Amir, who spreads his hands, eyes guileless. “If it will put you at ease,” Amir says, “let us dispense with the doublespeak. I have been at this game for many years, and any colleague of the Black Widow's is more than he seems. I began to hear rumors of your friend Coulson not long before you contacted me, and by now I'm surely not alone. I must say, your entry into my country was not a stealthy one.”

Natasha frowns. If Clint didn't value all his limbs, he'd say she looks embarrassed. “We were in a hurry,” she protests. “I didn't expect you to deliver him to us.”

“Can we maybe have this conversation somewhere else?” Clint interrupts. “Like, not in the middle of a room full of potential hostiles?” He glances at Coulson, who's looking a little gray. More alarming is the fact that he hasn't spoken up with a plan yet. Coulson _always_ has a plan. “Let's talk in the car. I'm sure Amir can catch a ride from the airport.”

“Good idea,” Nat says. She's also watching Coulson worriedly, but when she takes a step toward him like she's going to grab his other arm, he fixes her with his best _I will have you reassigned to Antarctica_ glare, and she backs off with a little smile. “Let's go, gentlemen.”

As promised, the car is waiting by the lobby door. Amir climbs in front with the driver, and Clint finds himself squished between Natasha and Coulson in the back. The temperature is still hovering somewhere between surface-of-the-sun and depths-of-hell, and Coulson's face is red and damp with sweat. Clint wants to suggest he take his jacket off (in a totally non- innuendo laden way), but he's yet to actually speak to the man and isn't so sure he wants to break that streak.

“Phil,” Natasha says, leaning across Clint. “Are you injured?”

 _Dead!_ Clint thinks. He's not injured, he's dead; there's a spear through his fucking chest and a little headstone in Arlington and Sitwell's shit in his old office, and _he's supposed to be dead_.

“I'm fine,” Coulson says shortly. Clint and Natasha pin him with identical disbelieving glares, and he rolls his eyes, adding, “I've been laying low, and I haven't had many opportunities for food and drink.”

“You're favoring your left side,” Nat argues. She looks pointedly at Clint, like she's expecting him to interject (and in the past, yeah, he would've; he'd have teased Coulson for being off his game, and Coulson would have eventually told the truth just to get him to shut up), but he just directs his gaze to the floor. She sighs in exasperation before turning back to Coulson. “Is this a new injury?”

“You mean, as opposed to the one that killed him?” Clint says snappishly, and oops, so much for not talking. He hunches into himself, hoping they'll just forget he's there. That could totally happen.

“Barton ...” Coulson's voice is weary, but it's not the _You are getting on my last nerve, agent_ tone that Clint is used to. He sounds exhausted, and Clint might feel bad if he didn't have months of pent-up grief and fear and loneliness about to boil over, like a pressure cooker left too long and finally ready to blow its lid.

“No,” Clint says. “Just … no. I don't want to hear your goddamn logic, or excuses or explanations or any of it. Do you have any idea – did you even care -” He's nearly incoherent in his rage, but finally he spits out, “Fuck you, Coulson.”

“Clint!” Natasha grabs his arm, equal parts angry and shocked. He's never spoken to Coulson like that – never speaks to anyone like that, really, supervillains excepted – but he's just _done_. He's aware that Amir is peering over his shoulder, and even the driver is watching him in the rearview, like he thinks Clint is about to snap. Clint's not so sure he'd be wrong.

“It's okay, Natasha,” Coulson says quietly. He turns a little in his seat, huffing in pain, and Clint can't help that his head jerks around to check on him. Coulson meets his eyes. “I _would_ like to explain, but … will you accept an apology?”

Clint can't look away. He's heard Coulson apologize exactly three times. Two of those were to Fury, for epically bungled missions, and the last was to an undercover operative in Sri Lanka, who Coulson brained with a coconut before discovering the man was one of the good guys. He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. He's so tired and confused, and some traitorous little part of himself is just happy that Coulson is right there next to him. He's quick to anger but he sucks at holding grudges, and maybe … maybe it wouldn't hurt to listen.

He opens his mouth to tell Coulson he'll take that explanation now, but the words turn into a breathless shout when there's a flash of light ahead, followed a second later by an ear-ringing boom. The driver stomps the breaks just as a shockwave rocks the car, and Clint is thrown sideways onto Coulson. By the time he rights himself, Natasha has dragged her backpack into her lap and started simultaneously strapping knives to her person and loading guns. He reaches for a SIG, because his fucking bow is in the trunk, and passes another to Coulson, who's looking worse for wear after having 170 pounds of archer in his lap.

“Sitrep?” Natasha asks calmly, sliding a final knife into the holster at her ankle.

“Air strikes,” Amir calls from the front. “This is the last functioning airport in the capital, and a prime target. There was another attack not long ago, although the runway was untouched.”

“Well,” Clint says in resignation, “let's hope their aim hasn't improved.”

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

At some point during all the jostling, the car started moving again, though now they're inching forward at a crawl. The road ahead is basically one big dust cloud, and Clint can't help but ask, “Uh, is this the best idea, moving toward the explosions?”

Coulson snorts. “When have you ever run from an explosion, Barton? Unless you were the one who caused it, that is.”

Clint wants to argue that he does have a sense of self-preservation, but … well. At least Coulson's feeling well enough to be a dick. “I'm just saying, we have handguns. They have missiles.”

“There may be forces on the ground, as well,” Amir points out. “Not to mention there are civilian homes nearby, some of which have already been damaged by the fighting.”

“Oh good,” Clint says. “So we might have a mob of angry civilians on top of whoever's taking shots at the runway. Have I thanked you for bringing me along yet, Natasha? Because really, there's nothing like being shot at in the desert to make a guy feel loved.”

Natasha ignores him in favor of tapping on her phone. A moment later, it dings in response, and she stows it back in her bag with a satisfied noise. “The pilot has the plane powered up and waiting. Communications are down with the tower, but as far as he can tell the runway is clear.”

Clint raises an eyebrow. “Did he happen to mention, you know, fighter jets? People with rocket launchers? Also, how in the hell do you have cell service?”

“Stark,” Nat replies with a shrug, like that explains everything. Which … fair. “And we don't have a choice, Clint. We need to get out of the country. The fighting is only going to get worse. And” - she turns to look at Coulson - “can you confirm that your cover has been blown?”

“Well,” Coulson says ruefully, “if the fact that my hotel room was firebombed yesterday is anything to go by, then I'd say yes, my cover is blown. To answer your question from earlier, I happened to be in the bathroom at the time, and the tub protected me from most of the blast, although I may have some bruised ribs.”

“And your … pre-existing injury?” Natasha asks.

Clint's pretty sure she's aiming for non-judgmental, but there's still a hint of _you dumbass_ in the tone, and he can't help his smirk. It feels so much like the old days, and despite his anger and the whole imminent-fiery-death thing (or maybe because of that), it's the most he's felt like himself in months.

“Healed,” Coulson says. “Mostly. It's a long story. I assure you, I'm not going to drop dead anytime in the near future, so let's focus on getting out of here.”

“Look,” Amir calls, pointing ahead. “The airplane. The runway seems clear of ground troops -”

“Also,” Clint interrupts, “no citizens with torches and pitchforks, so that's good.”

“Ah …” Amir looks puzzled, but nods gamely. “Yes. It seems luck is with us.”

“Except … ” Clint leans over Natasha, slapping the button to lower the window as he squints against the dying sun. The dust is starting to settle, and he can just make out a dark cloud in the distance. The scent of motor oil and rock dust drifts through the open window, and he feels Nat tense beneath him as she figures it out. “C-4?”

“Mm … “ She shoves Clint off, leaning out to take a deep breath of the desert air. “Most likely. Could be a car bomb. Either way, I think we just figured out why there's no response from the tower.”

“Well, shit.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been sitting on my computer for a week while I tried to decide what direction I was going, and I finally decided I'd ask you guys. It's like choose your own adventure! So ... do we want to go all Robert Ludlum with this thing, and stick around in Libya fighting some terrorists? Or are you like, 'Come on with some fluff already; I'm sick of your terrible action scenes!' I really would appreciate any input.


	11. Chapter 11

There's a long pause, during which everyone presumably considers how fucked they are, before Clint settles back in his seat with a sigh. “Well, on the plus side, there's not likely to be any other planes landing or taking off, so who needs the tower anyway? It's not like we haven't managed worse. Remember Zimbabwe, with the guys throwing those poison spears at the ...”

He trails off uncomfortably, because this used to be one of his favorite stories to tell newbies at SHIELD. It was early days, pre-Natasha, just him and Coulson and a whole group of pissed off tribesmen chasing them through a mile of jungle. Coulson had nearly taken a spear in the ass, and they'd laughed hysterically, sprawled together on the floor of the 'copter, about how the whole op felt like something out of Indiana Jones. That was also the moment he'd decided he was sticking around, as long as he could have Coulson as his handler.

He glares out the window, hating himself a little for the way that memory always gave him the warm fuzzies. Coulson probably didn't even remember it, just one blip in a life of badassery and adventure, but to Clint … It was the first time he'd ever really understood the word _camaraderie._

He's expecting either silence or some kind of rebuke about his reckless plan, so he nearly jumps out of his skin when a hand lands gently on his shoulder. He whips his head around to look at Coulson, who is smiling faintly. Clint just stares, because Coulson smirks and chuckles on occasion, but he rarely smiles. It lights up his eyes, piercing even behind those (evil, unfair) glasses, and knocks a few years off his age, and - goddammit he hates when Natasha is right.

“That's when I knew you were something special, “ Coulson says softly. Clint peers at him in confusion, and he adds, “Zimbabwe. Before that, I wasn't sure if you knew how to be a team player. But you took out two of those tribesmen before I could even pull my sidearm, with a _bow and arrow_ , of all things. You tackled me out of the way of that spear, saving me from what I'm sure would've been years of ribbing from Fury. We made it out of there by the skin of our teeth, and you just laughed, like you were having the time of your life. I knew even then that you were meant for something great. And now look. Clint Barton, Avenger.”

Clint just gapes at him, because _what_ ? He'd gotten the occasional 'nice work, agent,' in the past, but nothing like this. Nothing like Coulson being so open and honest and _smiling_ at him, and Clint narrows his eyes suspiciously, because some kind of alien clone isn't totally out of the realm of possibility. He should probably thank Coulson, or tell him how much that op meant to him, too, but because he's an asshole, what comes out of his mouth is, “Not an Avenger anymore. Not after you died.”

He can practically feel Natasha rolling her eyes when she says, “Boys. As happy as I am that you've decided to start speaking to each other again, this is really not the time or place.”

And yeah, point. Because Amir and the driver might be politely looking away, but he has no doubt that they're listening. Also, explosions.

“As much as I hate to admit it,” Nat continues, “Clint's right. Get us as close to the plane as you can, and then get out of here fast. Take Amir wherever he needs to go.”

Amir nods his thanks. “This was quite the adventure, although it seems your friend did not need my help after all. I'm only sorry your stay was so short. I would say that you're all welcome back any time, but I think perhaps it would be best if you did not visit for a while.”

Natasha snorts. “I have a feeling we'll be sticking to the U.S. for the foreseeable future. Our government isn't much happier with us than yours is. Anyway, I've had enough world travel this week to last me for a bit.”

They pull up next to the plane, which is powered up as promised, and after a hasty round of goodbyes, Clint, Natasha and Coulson dash for the lowered steps. Apart from sirens in the distance, the runway is quiet. Clint pulls the door closed behind them, and Natasha calls out to the pilot to get them in the air. All in all, it's one of the easiest escapes they've ever made, which makes Clint deeply suspicious. Still, he thinks, watching Coulson gingerly lower himself onto the couch, whatever comes next, at least he's no longer alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, a conversation! Next up, Coulson explains himself.
> 
> To those of you who left comments, I can't thank you enough. It keeps me writing every time I almost talk myself out of it.


	12. Chapter 12

Clint spends the first five minutes of the flight hovering anxiously near a cabinet helpfully marked 'Parachutes.” (He has to wonder if they're in case of superhero-related emergencies, or just in case Stark feels like skydiving. The odds are probably 50/50.) Finally, he decides they aren't going to be shot out of the air and allows himself to collapse into a chair.

“You know,” Coulson says from where he's sprawled on the couch, tie missing and one hand clutching his ribs, “as much as I hate to compliment Stark for anything, SHIELD could take some pointers on how to outfit a jet.”

“If SHIELD still existed, you mean,” Clint mutters, because yep, still an asshole.

Coulson frowns. “Ah, well, I'm afraid I don't have all the details on that yet. Amir told me a little – enough to convince me to come meet you – but I wouldn't say no to a debrief.”

“Later,” Nat says, emerging from the front of the plane with an armload of snacks. She dumps what looks like dozens of packages of peanuts and pretzels on the coffee table before reaching into her pocket for several miniature bottles of booze. Clint falls on a tiny vodka immediately, muttering heartfelt, if garbled, thanks as he opens it with his teeth. Nat shoots him a disapproving look before continuing. “I think first we'd like to hear what you were doing in Libya, and not, as we were led to believe, dead.”

Clint looks at her gratefully. Despite what people might think from her no-nonsense attitude, she's by far the more diplomatic of the two. If he'd been the one to ask, there'd definitely be more shouting.

Coulson sighs. “Apparently, I _did_ die, if only for a matter of seconds. I spent a while in a medically-induced coma, and then when I finally woke there was PT and a whole horde of psychiatrists. I suppose they were afraid that being stabbed with a magical spear would have some … lingering effects. It was months before I was allowed out of medical. This was my first mission back, and it was supposed to be easy. Low risk.”

“That still doesn't explain why we thought you were dead all this time,” Clint says through gritted teeth. To his shock, Coulson looks chagrined.

“You'll have to ask Fury about that. I understand he told you that in the beginning to rally the Avengers, but I suppose afterward it was all so touch-and-go … I can't say why no one informed you after I was recovered. I honestly thought you knew, Clint.”

Clint stands up so quickly, he sends peanuts flying. “You thought we _knew_? You didn't think we'd come visit? After all the times you sat with me in medical, all the – do you know how fucked up this is? Everyone blamed me! _I_ blamed me! I spent all this time thinking I deserved -” To his horror, his voice cracks on the last word, and he buries his face in his hands.

“Clint, no,” Nat says, her voice thick with disbelief. She comes to sit next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He loves her so much right then, for pushing past her distaste for physical contact to comfort him. “No one blamed you. It was no one's fault but Loki's. If I'd known you felt this way … I never should have left you there alone.”

“Clint,” Coulson says softly. “Come here, please.”

Clint looks up to see Coulson struggling upright, and he hesitantly moves to sit next to him on the couch. (If he wipes away a few stray tears first, well, no one has to know. He can blame it on the air conditioning.)

Coulson lays a gentle hand on his arm. “I'm sorry. I thought … I saw the footage of you fighting with the Avengers. You'd finally found a team, finally lived up to your potential. I just assumed you were busy, or that - “ He looks down at his lap, absently smoothing a crease in his pants. The tips of his ears have gone a little red. “That you didn't need me anymore.”

Clint is honestly too shocked to speak, but luckily Natasha has it covered. “Bullshit.” Clint and Coulson both look at her in surprise. “That's bullshit,” she repeats. “We always need you. Neither of us would have ever joined SHIELD without you. Possibly neither of us would be alive without you. And the Avengers came together because we thought you died, but no one was there to hold us together after. All those strong personalities clashing … we needed someone to be the glue. That's what you do, Phil. You're the glue, and we fell apart without you.”

Coulson looks a little teary-eyed himself after that speech, and all Clint can think is what idiots they've all been. “She's right,” Clint says hoarsely. “Stark and Cap couldn't stop fighting, and I think Banner just ran away before he Hulked out and smashed both of them. Then Thor went back to Asgard, and Cap and Natasha went to D.C., and I … “ _Was alone_ , he thinks, but feels too pathetic to say aloud. From the expressions on Nat's and Coulson's faces, they got the idea anyway.

“Well,” Natasha says firmly, “that's all going to change. Stark wants us to move in, and I know that Steve is interested in re-forming the Avengers. He's even found us another member. We'll track down the others, and with Phil's help we'll get our house back in order.”

Coulson seems to perk up, shoulders straightening and the hint of a smirk curving his lips. “Okay. Where do we begin?”


	13. Chapter 13

They begin, as it turns out, with naps. Apart from a couple hours on the way to Libya, Clint hasn't slept in the better part of a week. Coulson's apparently been on the run for days, and he looks about as great as Clint feels. Even Natasha, who always looks five minutes from strutting down a red carpet, has dark circles under her eyes. They pull out the bed for Coulson, who is asleep and snoring faintly within seconds, and then flop down in seats near the front of the plane.

Natasha, curled up with a tiny pillow and a ridiculously fluffy blanket, gives him the side-eye. He sighs. "What?"

"Why aren't you back there with Coulson?" she hisses, jabbing him in the side.

He makes a noise that is definitely not a squeak. (He has one ticklish spot on his body, okay, and it's not his fault that Natasha is evil.) "What do you want me to do, climb in the bed and have my way with him? He's sleeping."

"I certainly wouldn't complain if you two wanted to put on a show," she says with a leer, "but no, I thought after all these years of pining, you'd see your chance when it bit you in the ass. He's not your superior any longer, and he obviously missed you as much as you missed him." 

Clint scoffs. "You're seeing things." He pulls his own blanket over his head, hoping she'll give up and leave him alone, but she pokes him again. "Ow, damn it, Nat! There was no pining. And even if there had been, it's just not going to happen."

"Why the hell not?" Natasha demands. "You're smarter than you give yourself credit for, you're a superhero, you're moderately attractive - "

"Wow, thanks," Clint says dryly.

" - and I've definitely caught him looking at your ass."

Clint throws his blanket off with a huff. "Let's say I believe you. My ass, however fantastic it may be, is not enough to hold a relationship together. I told you, this sort of thing just doesn't happen to me. Maybe, at best, we sleep together once and then do the awkward passing in the hallways and avoiding each other at breakfast thing, until he can't take it anymore and fucks off to work for the CIA or something, at which point I never see him again. It's not worth it to lose him again when I've only just found out he's alive."

"You really are an idiot," Natasha says, rolling her eyes.

"What happened to me being smarter than I give myself credit for?" Clint asks indignantly.

"I take it back. Why won't you let yourself have this?"

"Why won't you just drop it?" Clint snaps. "I'm tired and pissed, and I've just had a pretty big fucking surprise, and I don't know why you keep trying to get my hopes up, but I'm not buying it!"

"Children," says a voice from behind them, and they both whip around to see Coulson, bleary-eyed and wobbly, clutching the back of a seat. "Don't make me turn this plane around."

Nat snorts a laugh, but Clint is mortified. How much had Coulson heard? It's unlike both of them, but Nat in particular, to not hear someone coming up behind, and when he glances at her she just smiles innocently. He tries to convey the depth of his hatred with his eyes, and her smile turns to a smirk.

Coulson sinks into the seat next to Clint with a pained sigh. "I had hoped to receive medical attention, or at least a few hours of sleep, before we did this." Clint tenses, ready to run (although to where, he doesn't know), but Coulson grabs his arm and pins him with his best _don't fuck with me_ look before carrying on. "We need to talk."

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short, but the next one shouldn't be far behind. I've been trapped in a hotel by snow, and I literally have nothing better to do than write fan fiction.


	14. Chapter 14

“Uh, no, I'm good, thanks,” Clint says, pulling away gently. He'd cut his arm off before he'd hurt Coulson, but he wants away _right now_. Nothing good has ever followed the words 'We need to talk,' and he's not sure he can handle hearing whatever it is right now.

“Barton, sit down and quit being a pain in my ass,” Coulson says tiredly. “I promise you it's nothing bad.”

Nat stands, gathering her blanket and pillow. “If you guys aren't going to make use of the bed, I'm heading back there. Have fun.” She wanders to the back of the plane, leaving Clint alone with Coulson. The traitor.

Clint's not usually prone to fidgeting, but right now he'd kill for something to keep his hands and mind busy. There's not so much as a stray thread on the goddamn expensive blanket, so he ends up picking halfheartedly at his cuticles. Anything to not look at Coulson, who he can feel staring at the side of his head.

Coulson sighs. “Clint. I am sorry for not contacting you. I honestly thought the Avengers would be settled in by now, that the Captain was perfectly capable of leading the team without me. If nothing else, Agent Hill would be an excellent handler.”

“To hell with the Avengers!” Clint shouts, and yeah, so much for staying calm. “This is about me! And Natasha too, but - “ He tugs at his hair, trying to find some outlet for his anger. For most of his life, showing emotions was more likely to result in a good beating than an honest conversation, and there's part of him that struggles with it even now. Coulson, more than anyone, had been responsible for turning him into the semi-functional adult he is now, and he owes it to the man to keep a lid on his temper.

Coulson, of course, knows all this about him, and he pulls Clint's hands away, resting them on his own knee. Clint stares down at them, his weather-beaten fingers covered by Coulson's slimmer, pale ones. He wishes Natasha was still here so he could ask her what the hell is going on. Coulson's touched him plenty of times over the course of his career, to double-check his armor and to drag him out of collapsed buildings, and one time he had even held Clint's guts in with his bare hands while they waited for extraction. But this … he doesn't know what to make of this.

“You know,” Clint says slowly, still looking down at their hands, “that I don't get close to people. Everyone I've ever trusted has fucked me over. Then you … it took me years to really believe that one day you wouldn't get tired of me and leave me in the desert with a bullet to the head. The first time I fucked up in the field, I was so sure … but you just patched me up and told me where I'd gone wrong and sent me back out there, like I was worth the effort of fixing.”

“ _Clint_.” Coulson's voice cracks, and his grip on Clint's hand is almost painful.

Clint barrels on, sure that if he stops now he'll never start again. “Then the first time I got kidnapped, I thought, well, this is it. No way they're crazy enough to follow my annoying ass all the way to Bumfuck, Honduras. Really thought I was hallucinating when you turned up in my cell. After that, though, I guess I started to believe that you actually had my back. You always came, and you never gave up, and then there was Natasha, and it almost started to feel like I had a … a … “

“Family,” Coulson fills in softly. “I know, because I felt the same way. This job doesn't afford much in the way of outside entanglements, and my parents have been dead for years. I'll admit that at first you were simply too much of an asset to let go, but you have to know that you became more than just an agent.”

“What I know,” Clint says, his voice harsher than he intends, “is that you were dead, and I blamed myself, and you _let me_ blame myself. If it didn't occur to you that I'd feel guilty about leading the charge that killed you, then you don't know me as well as you seem to think you do. I was angry with you for a while, for taking on Loki alone, but I know that's just the kind of man you are. What I didn't think was that you were the kind of man who could leave the people he supposedly cares about twisting in the wind, thinking you were dead, while you just went back to work like nothing happened!”

“Clint, please,” Coulson pleads.

Clint's never heard him sound like that before, and it's almost enough to pull him back from his anger. He can't, though. He just can't do this right now, with everything so close to the surface. He yanks his hand away and climbs over Coulson, stalking to the back of the plane where Natasha is doing a poor job of pretending to be asleep. He curls up on the bed next to her, his hand shooting out to grab hers like a lifeline, and she squeezes once, letting him know she's there. He hides his face, cursing himself for being a coward as the pillow turns damp under his cheek.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't kill me! Clint's angry and emotionally stunted; you have to give him time. :) I promise there will be warm fuzzies eventually.


	15. Chapter 15

Clint wakes up to an elbow in his kidney. He flops onto his side, glaring halfheartedly at Natasha, who has apparently decided she's done with his shit.

“I'm done with your shit,” Nat informs him. “I thought you needed to get that out of your system, and while I'm proud of you for using actual words, the temper tantrum at the end lost you some points.” She steals his blanket and starts shoving at him with her feet, and despite the fact that he's probably got 70 pounds on her, he feels himself start to slide off the bed.

“Okay, okay, jeez,” Clint grumbles, struggling upright and trying to wipe the last of the sleep from his eyes. “What's so important you had to cause me organ damage to wake me up?”

Natasha jabs a finger toward the front of the plane. “You have a half hour until we land in New York, at which point your life is going to become considerably more complicated.”

“More complicated?” Clint interrupts in disbelief. “More complicated than flying all over the world and running from terrorists and finding your undead former boss?”

“Yes,” Nat says evenly. “Now go up there and finish what you started, or I swear I will throw you out of this plane. And don't even try to tell me there's nothing to finish,” she snaps when Clint opens his mouth.

He pushes to his feet, stalking down the aisle while muttering uncharitable things about Natasha under his breath. He has no doubt that she can hear, and he'll probably pay for it later, but it makes him feel better.

Coulson is awake and watching his approach with a hint of amusement. Clint flops down next to him and mumbles to his feet, “So I guess that could've gone better. Last night, I mean. I, uh, sort of dumped my trauma all over you and didn't let you speak, and apparently there was a temper tantrum involved, so … sorry.“

Coulson makes a noise that might be a chuckle when it grows up, and Clint can't help his grin. He still loves making Coulson laugh, despite everything, and he guesses that's just a sign of how screwed he is.

“It was understandable,” Coulson says. “And I'm sorry, too. It's not as though I didn't know all that about you. I'm the one who wrote 'fear of abandonment' in your file, after all. I should have known, after all that time as your handler, that you'd have a hard time adjusting.” There's a pause, so long that Clint thinks he's finished talking, before Coulson continues hesitantly, “There's a reason why it was usually the three of us on missions. I tried to make sure … you and Natasha need each other, and you'd become comfortable with me.”

“You think this is about missions?” Clint asks incredulously. “About being _comfortable_? I thought I was the dumb one here.”

He says it (mostly) jokingly, but Coulson suddenly has a death grip on his arm, and Clint's eyes dart up to him in alarm. Coulson looks pissed. “You are not dumb. I thought I'd broken you of talking about yourself that way,” he says, giving Clint a little shake. “Do you think Nick and I would have put you on the shortlist for the Avengers if we thought you were dumb? Do you think I would have spent years training you and trying to make you comfortable so you'd stick around? Do you think Natasha would put up with you?”

Clint laughs a little at that, because yeah, Nat's tolerance for stupidity is pretty low. Still. “That's all because you needed my aim. There's no SHIELD now, no Avengers. There's no point in keeping me around. I thought Natasha had figured that out, after … after.”

There's a string of violent Russian curses behind him ( _those_ words he knows, if nothing else), and he whips his head around to frown at Natasha. He'd thought this was supposed to be a private party, but of course she was eavesdropping. “If you really think - “ Nat stops to take a deep breath. “I left because I thought you were okay, because you _lied to me_ and told me you were. I suppose I should have known better, but Fury convinced me to go with Steve, and I'll admit that's my fault. But if you really think I would ever give up on you … Clint, even if you cut off both of your arms, you'd still be my best friend.”

“Wow,” Clint says with a shaky laugh. “Thanks for that image.”

“Shut up,” Nat retorts. “Talking about feelings gives me hives.”

Despite her words, she rests a gentle hand on Clint's hair, scratching through the strands with her short nails. He kind of wants to purr, especially since Coulson's grip has loosened to something more reassuring and less 'I'm going to rip your arm off and beat you with it.' He can't remember ever feeling so comfortable while surrounded by other people.

“As for you,” Nat says, gesturing at Coulson with her free hand, “I am also done with your shit. I should have known better than to think two men could talk things out like adults.”

“I'm sorry,” Coulson says dryly, “who can't talk about feelings without getting hives?”

Clint snickers, and Natasha tightens her grip in his hair. He tries his best to look contrite, because _ow._

“As I was saying,” Nat continues, still pointing at Coulson, “I have been watching the two of you pine for years. Years! Every time Clint had to go on a solo mission, you moped around like a sad sack the entire time until he was back. And Clint … I think we've seen how Clint reacted when he thought you were dead. I put up with it this long because I thought you were just worried about it interfering with work. I had no idea you were both oblivious.”

Clint hunches in on himself, wishing he could disappear. Even if he's willing to admit that he may, possibly, have done some pining, there's no way Coulson feels the same, and -

“You're right,” Coulson says. Clint nearly gives himself whiplash turning to look at the other man, who gives him an embarassed little smile. “I was his superior, and I didn't think it would be right. But mostly … I suppose I was just a coward.”

Clint's busy gaping like a fish, so Natasha rolls her eyes heavenward (he wonders whether she's asking for patience or a lightning strike) and answers for him. “You had to know that Clint would never make the first move. For someone who can act so full of himself, he's shockingly insecure.”

Coulson nods. “I know. It was easier, not taking the chance. But I - “ The intercom crackles to life, announcing their descent into New York, and Coulson frowns at the interruption. “She's not wrong, Clint, and I still have so much to explain, I know, but will you at least give me the chance?”

Clint glances at Natasha, who nods encouragingly, then back at Coulson, whose face is open and hopeful. He's not sure exactly what Coulson is asking for. It sounds like the answer to all his dreams, and therefore too good to be true, but the man has never lied to him. (To his face, he amends. Because he's still pissed about the not-dead thing.) It'll hurt if it goes wrong, but he's not sure anything could actually be worse than the last several months. Besides, Natasha might legitimately kick his ass if he doesn't give it a shot.

“All right,” Clint says finally. “Just … slow?”

Coulson smiles, blue eyes lighting up with relief and something like pride. “Slow,” he agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I'm nervous about this. I'm almost as bad at talking about feelings as these idiots.


	16. Chapter 16

They land at Teterboro, where yet another sedan is waiting to take them to Manhattan. (Clint has to wonder how many of Stark's billions are spent just on transportation.) Natasha climbs in the front with the driver, a rotund dark-haired man who looks vaguely familiar, while Clint helps Coulson get settled in the back. More to the point, Coulson _lets_ Clint get him settled in the back, which is a little alarming. He's moving stiffly and keeps making abortive movements to clutch his chest, and it's all Clint can do to keep from booting the driver out and taking the wheel himself.

Natasha catches his eye in the rearview. "ETA is about 20 minutes. Trust me, Happy's made this drive more times than you can count."

"Happy?" Clint asks incredulously.

The driver bobs his head. "I'm head of Mr. Stark's security now, but I was his driver for a lot of years. He wanted me to come get you personally. This is like a nice Sunday drive compared to some of the situations he gets himself in."

Coulson snorts. "I don't doubt it."

"I'm sorry; your name's Happy?" Clint persists.

Happy shrugs. "Harold. Wouldn't you rather be Happy than Harry?"

"What's that saying about glass houses, Clinton Francis?" Coulson asks with a smirk.

Clint sticks his tongue out at him, because he's mature like that.

As promised, they arrive at Stark Tower roughly 20 minutes later, and Happy pulls into an underground garage before leading them through a labyrinth of badge checks and hallways that Clint only half pays attention to, because Coulson is leaning heavily against his side. They finally come to a stop next to an elevator, which Happy assures them will deliver them to Stark.

The doors have barely slid closed when a voice comes out of _absolutely nowhere_. "Good morning, sirs and madam. Mr. Stark is awaiting you in his private dining room with breakfast. He has also taken the liberty of contacting his personal physician, because, I quote, 'Agent's not allowed to die again.'"

Clint nearly jumps out of his skin, but Coulson and Natasha appear unimpressed. "Why," Clint asks, "is there a voice coming from the elevator? A British voice?"

"JARVIS," Coulson says. "Stark's artificial intelligence. He's actually much more pleasant to deal with than Stark is."

"Thank you, sir," the voice says cheerfully.

"This is happening, right?" Clint asks, pinching his own arm as the doors open, depositing them in a living room that looks like it belongs in the Four Seasons. "I'm not dreaming, or having some kind of hallucination?"

"Aw," Stark says, popping around a corner with a manic grin. "I know, I'm the man of many people's dreams, but it's all real. Agent! Good to see you. And baby agents. Agentlings? Well, not really agents at all anymore, which I guess is why we're here."

"Tactful as always, Stark," Natasha drawls. "JARVIS said something about food?"

"Right." Stark flings out a hand. "This way; follow me. Don't worry, I didn't do the cooking.  Unless you need the doctor first?"

Coulson shakes his head. "I'm fine. A few more minutes won't hurt."

Clint glares at him. Coulson has been leaning on his shoulder since they entered the tower, and is therefore clearly lying his ass off, but Stark has already disappeared through an open doorway, babbling something about pancakes and giant doughnuts.

"Really," Coulson says quietly as they follow Stark into the dining room, "I'm okay. A little bruised and battered, and I could stand to sleep for a few days, but you can stop watching me like I'm going to fall over and die."

Clint grits his teeth. "It's not funny." Coulson dying is not just a theoretical thing for him anymore, and he'll be damned if it's going to happen again.

Coulson tugs him to a stop. "I know, Clint. I'm sorry; I wasn't trying to joke. I promise I'll get checked out as soon as we eat. I'm actually starving, and I think that will go a long way toward making me feel better. Okay?"

"Okay," Clint agrees grudgingly.

Stark's dining table is a glass monstrosity with carved wooden legs and low-backed upholstered chairs. There are fresh flowers and sparking wineglasses, and a centerpiece that looks like a giant crystal apple. Despite that, the man himself is sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter, spinning lazily with a steaming mug in his hand. In front of him is more food than Clint can comprehend at once: fruit, pastries, eggs, potatoes, various breakfast meat, pancakes, four different pitchers of juice. There are two pots of coffee, and Clint peers at them in interest.

"That one's mine," Stark says, gesturing to the one on his left. "I mean, you're welcome to try it, but most people seem to think it's a little strong."

Clint pokes at the carafe, watching the liquid slosh around. It looks more like tar than coffee, and he grins and pours himself a cup. Stark raises an eyebrow in surprise. "We used to drink it like this in the circus. This old guy who cleaned up after the animals called it cowboy coffee. Thick enough to float a horseshoe."

Stark laughs. He doesn't comment on the circus thing, and Clint's not dumb enough to think he's being polite. He has no doubt that Stark knows more about Clint's past than he does, especially with the leaked SHIELD files.

By the time anyone speaks again, Clint and Coulson have decimated two plates apiece and Natasha is eying the last piece of bacon. Clint's pretty sure he's going to fall into a fat-and-sugar coma, but it's so worth it.

"So," Stark says, pouring his third cup of coffee. "I managed to get ahold of the Capcicle while you guys were living it up on my jet, and he's agreed to come here and talk with us. I think he was planning on running off half-cocked to chase down his old buddy, the hypocrite, but I convinced him it'd be a lot easier with a team. Banner actually got here last night; I think he's still sleeping. I've also got some lawyers and PR people lined up for this afternoon, so we can figure out where to go from here.There are guest suites a few floors down, so make yourselves at home and I'll have JARVIS call you when it's time. As for you, Agent, Dr. Rosen is waiting for you in my lab. He's like 80 and he's pretty crotchety, but he's been my doctor my entire life and I trust him."

Tony finally stops for breath and notices everyone staring at him. He sighs impatiently. "What? Did you miss the genius billionaire speech? I told you" - he points at Natasha - "that I'd have things taken care of. Now get out of here. Chop, chop. Things to do, naps to take."

"Well," Clint says, watching Stark bolt for the door. "At least things won't be boring."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you guys know Happy's name is Harold? I didn't, until I looked it up. And there's nothing wrong with the name Harry - it's actually my dad's name - but I couldn't find an explanation for why he decided to go by Happy, so I made up my own. Also, continuing my decision to play it fast and loose with canon and timelines and such, I kept him as head of security but none of the events of Iron Man 3 are going to play into this. I have yet to decide whether I'm going to actually write them looking for Bucky. I've got a Steve/Bucky story I'm working on at the same time as this one, and I'm sort of afraid I'll end up writing the same thing twice.


	17. Chapter 17

Dr. Rosen is, as advertised, old and crotchety, but Clint likes him immediately. For one thing, he refuses to take any shit when Coulson tries to convince him that he's fine. Clint had all but dragged him to the lab, the other man protesting the whole way that he just needs some rest.

Rosen is hunched and shriveled, more hair in his ears than on top of his head. His eyebrows look like fluffy white caterpillars perched above wire-rimmed glasses, framing brown eyes squinted into a perpetual glare. 

"Hey," Clint whispers when the doctor wanders off with a couple vials of Coulson's blood. "We should introduce this guy to Steve. They're about the same age, right?"

Coulson glares at him. The effect is somewhat diminished by the fact that he's peering up at Clint from an exam table, his face washed out by the bright lights. Stark has a medical wing attached to his lab that rivals the facilities at SHIELD (because of course he does), and Coulson had been poked and scanned to within an inch of his life, Dr. Rosen clucking in disappointment the entire time.

"I still say this is unnecessary," Coulson grumbles.

"And I say you should lie down and shut up, young man," the doctor snaps, returning with a fistful of printouts.

 _Young man_ , Clint mouths, snickering quietly. Coulson's glare intensifies.

"You are malnourished and dehydrated," Dr. Rosen says, "and very lucky that your ribs are merely bruised and not broken."

"What about his other injury?" Clint butts in (because seriously, shouldn't the giant _spear wound_ be the first priority?)

"Mostly healed," the doctor assures him. "There has been no further damage done, although I would suggest you give it a few weeks before getting yourself blown up again, yes? Now, I've written you prescriptions for a painkiller and some nutritional supplements, which you _will_ take. I'm sure your beau here will see to that."

Clint's so hung up on the word 'beau' that it takes him a minute to process what the doctor has said, and he can't look at Coulson as he chokes out, "Oh, we're not - I mean ... not yet? I don't - "

Dr. Rosen flaps a hand impatiently. "Please, I am very modern. There's no need to hide. Now, take him to his bed and make sure he stays there, and you" - he shoves the papers at Clint - "go get these filled."

Clint watches him wander out of the lab before sneaking a look at Coulson, who has an evil glint in his eye.

"So," Coulson says, struggling upright. "Are you going to take me to my bed?"

Clint wants to reach out and help, but his brain has temporarily fragmented. Part of it is screaming _Yes please, ravish me_ , and the other wants to run like his ass is on fire.

"Clint?" Coulson rests a hand on his shoulder, levering himself to his feet so he can look Clint in the eyes. "I'm sorry. I know you said slow, and I was just kidding. Trying to lighten the mood, I guess."

Clint shakes his head. "No, it's ... I'm just ... " He rubs at his face in exasperation. When did he lose the ability to use words?

"I get it," Coulson says kindly. "It's been a rough few days. Few months, really. You said you left SHIELD? Do you want to tell me what happened?" 

"Not now. I'm going to go take care of your meds, and you're supposed to be resting. I'm sure JARVIS will show you to a room; I'll be back soon." Clint shrugs out from under Coulson's hand and leaves without looking back. He feels a little guilty for ditching Coulson, but he seriously needs a minute alone.

"JARVIS?" Clint asks the roof of the elevator. He's still pretty creeped out by this whole AI thing, and he's not sure if it'll even answer him. 

"Yes, Mr. Barton?" the voice responds.

"Uh, just Clint, please. And can you point me to the nearest pharmacy?"

There's a long pause, then, "Mr. Stark requests that you meet him in the penthouse."

The elevator starts moving - on its own, holy crap - before Clint can comment.

He's deposited in the same living room as before, where Stark is sprawled in an armchair with a glass of something amber in his hand. "Here, hand those over. Doc Rosen's a good guy, but he wouldn't know a computer if it bit him in the ass. I'll fax those in and have them delivered here." He waves the glass at Clint. "Drink?" 

Clint knows the smart thing is to say no, go check on Coulson then take a nap of his own. It's not even lunchtime, after all. "God, yes," he says, swiping the drink from Stark's hand and flopping down on the couch. "Keep 'em coming." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something weird happened with the last chapter - it showed that it had been updated on the wrong day, and it was way down on the list of updates. Hopefully this one cooperates. 
> 
> I feel like I should say thank you to those of you who are leaving kudos and commenting. This was the first fic I'd written in a couple years, and now it's like the floodgates have opened and I can't stop writing new stories. If everyone hadn't been so nice when I started publishing this (even though I'm already looking back and thinking 'I could've done that better'), I probably would have been too chicken to keep going. So thanks!


	18. Chapter 18

Clint throws back the pilfered drink and immediately chokes. "Holy shit, this tastes like seaweed and burnt tree bark."

Stark rolls his eyes and hops up to grab another glass, pouring them both a refill. "It's a $100 bottle of Laphroaig, you cretin, and it's meant to be savored."

Clint takes another hesitant sip, and ... nope. "Ah, yes," he says in his best snooty asshole voice, "there's a complex note of dead fish, with subtle hints of wet dog and the lingering finish of kerosene." He sets his glass on the coffee table and slides it over to Stark before wandering over to the wet bar. To his surprise, he finds a half-empty bottle of Jack tucked in the back of a cabinet, and he happily carries the entire thing back to the couch. "This is more like it," he says, plopping down next to Stark and taking a healthy swig.

Stark looks like someone's just insulted his mother. "And here I thought you were a man of taste. Well, no I didn't, but seriously, I didn't even know that was in there. I think it must've been Happy's."

"I knew I liked that guy," Clint muses. He doesn't tend to do much drinking, unlike Natasha who can down an entire bottle of vodka and still take out five men with her bare hands, and he's already feeling relaxed. There's a warm bloom in his stomach and a blessed emptiness in his head. "Nice place you've got here, by the way. I didn't really get a chance for a tour last time, what with the top floors being blown off. Even if the butler voice is pretty damn creepy."

Stark laughs. "JARVIS won't bother you if you don't bother him. Didn't you meet him last time? I know he was still functioning, because hello, genius."

Clint shrugs, taking another drink. "I guess I might've. I wasn't here long; he could've just not said anything. Or, I dunno, at that point I might've just chalked it up to another voice in my head." He winces as soon as he says it, because he just does not talk about Loki, period, and of all the people to spill his guts to.

Stark hums thoughtfully. "Now that you mention it, their accents do sound a bit similar. Is that why JARVIS creeps you out?"

Clint looks at the other man in surprise. He knows Stark is smart, of course, but he'd never pegged him as insightful. "I don't know ... maybe subconsciously? I hadn't thought about it."

Stark drums his fingers against his glass, looking pained. "I'd offer to reprogram the voice, but he's ... it's kind of a reminder of someone I used to know."

"No, seriously," Clint insists, "it's not a big deal. I know Loki's not in my head anymore. It's been a long time, and he's on another planet or whatever. I worried about it for a while there, but I figure if I was gonna snap and murder someone, it would've happened already." He peers down into his mostly empty bottle, then over at Stark, who's still fidgeting with a full glass. "Did you ... get me drunk to make me talk about my feelings?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Stark says innocently. "And I'm sure if I ever did such a thing, it would only be because I was threatened by a terrifying Russian."

Clint looks at him suspiciously. He can see Natasha having dealt with all the emotions she could handle and pawning it off on someone else, but Stark? Really? "We're all so screwed," he mutters.

Stark pats him on the back. "Look, I might be a narcissistic asshole, but I know you can't help someone else until you get your own shit sorted. You're clear on the present and the future, but I'm not the one you need to talk to about the past."

"You," Clint says, pointing at Stark, "are a sneaky bastard."

"Yep," Stark agrees cheerfully, snatching the bottle from his hand. "Agent is five floors down, and his medicine should be arriving right about ..." He pulls out his phone and jabs at a few buttons before announcing, "Now!" He shoves ineffectually at Clint's shoulder. "What are you waiting for? I have things to do; take your drunken ass out of here."

Stark gathers the bottles and glasses into his arms and swaggers off, and Clint stands with a sigh. "That man really loves his dramatic exits."

"Indeed, sir," JARVIS says.

Clint twitches.

"If I may," the AI continues gently. It's sort of a 'talking down the hostage-taking terrorist' voice, and Clint wants to resent it, but mostly he's just thankful. "Step into the elevator and I shall deliver you to the correct floor."

"Okay." Clint nods decisively, and most certainly does not stagger on the way to the elevator. "Take me to Coulson."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to re-write this chapter, because I'm an idiot and decided to do it on my iPad. I switched between tabs to research something and when I came back to my chapter, the page had reloaded and it was all gone. Ugh. Save your work, people.
> 
> So I've never actually tasted Laphroaig, but all those comments about its taste are from real people. They did an ad campaign a while back where they acknowledged it was a bit of an acquired taste, and included some of the more colorful quotes they'd gotten from customers. I think my favorite was "It's like being kicked in the face by a horse that's been galloping in a peaty bog."


	19. Chapter 19

JARVIS directs Clint to Coulson's suite, where a paper bag is waiting in front of the door. He picks it up and hears the distinctive rattling of pills. "How the hell?" he mutters. "Stark's some kind of ninja." The door swings open on its own, and he stares at it suspiciously. 

"Clint?" Coulson calls from inside.

He takes a few steps in, jumping when the door shuts behind him.

"The kitchen is the doorway to the left," JARVIS instructs him. "You'll find several bottles of water on the counter. Mr. Coulson is in the master bedroom, down the hallway to the right." 

"Nothing about this is alarming at all," Clint tells himself, collecting the water and following the hallway to a darkened bedroom. The door is standing open, and he can see Coulson, propped up by a stack of pillows on the still-made bed.

"Did you say something?" Coulson asks.

"Stark and his creepy house are ninjas," Clint mumbles. He drops the bag and a bottle of water on the bed. His legs feel funny, and the bed is right there, and it's so big. He collapses face-first next to Coulson.

"Barton, are you drunk?" Coulson asks. He sounds amused, but that's not right, Clint thinks. He's not supposed to drink on a mission.

"Nossir," Clint says around a mouthful of pillow. Soft, soft pillow. "Ima just sit here for a minute ..."

Clint wakes to an insistent jabbing in his side. He flaps an arm in irritation. "G'way, Natasha. Sleeping." He tries to pull the covers back around himself, then realizes he's lying on top of them. Strange. He must've been really tired last night.

The mattress shifts, and he tips toward the middle with his face smushed into the pillow. He turns his head to glare at Natasha and comes face-to-face with Coulson.

"Good afternoon," Coulson says. His lips are turned up in that way that means he's secretly laughing at Clint. He's still propped up against his stack of pillows, although he'd clearly drifted off at some point because his hair is all fluffy and mussed. There's a tablet in his hands and his glasses are perched on the end of his nose. He's so adorable Clint kind of wants to die. "I don't think a man can be considered adorable once he's past the age of 50, Barton. But thank you for the compliment, I suppose."

Well, shit. "'s no fair listening to things I say when I've just woken up."

Coulson snorts. "You can withstand torture and truth serums, but it turns out all I have to do is catch you after a nap to make you spill your guts. Speaking of naps, you've been out a couple hours now, and you smell like a brewery. Did you and Stark have fun?"

"How'd you know about that?" Clint asks. He's wondering if maybe he should get out of Coulson's bed _,_ but the other man doesn't seem bothered and he's so comfortable. He decides to sit upright, at least, so Coulson's not peering down at him.

"Natasha stopped by to tell me that you'd be a while. As best I can tell, it took you less than an hour to get drunk. Stark must be so disappointed. Then you came in here, threw things at me and passed out on my bed. I napped a while myself, then decided to start getting caught up on the news." Coulson waves his tablet, and Clint can see that's it's pulled up to an account of the fight in D.C.

Clint scrubs at his eyes, trying to focus. In the field, he can go from asleep to battle-ready in seconds. He only really sleeps deeply when someone he trusts (namely Nat or Coulson) has his back. It had been a long few months of catnaps, and even those had been interrupted often by nightmares. "How're you feeling?" he asks.

"Good." At Clint's disbelieving look, Coulson adds, "No, really. Between the sleep on the plane and just now, not to mention those painkillers, I'm mostly just a little sore. How about you?"

Clint wrinkles his nose in confusion. "I'm not injured."

"No, but you don't usually get drunk in the middle of the day or fall asleep that quickly, either," Coulson points out. "And do you think I didn't notice how much weight you've lost, or those circles under your eyes?" When Clint remains silent, he presses, "I think it might be time to tell me what's been going on, don't you?"

Clint shrugs, smoothing a hand over the bedspread. It's dark blue, surprisingly sedate for something that belongs to Stark. "Not much to tell."

"Barton," Coulson says sternly. It's his 'Agent, report' voice, and it pisses Clint off.

"Look, Coulson, I don't work for you anymore. You can't just order me to talk. And I could've avoided half of what I've been through the last few months if you - " Clint bites his tongue to make himself shut up. Stupid, stupid. He'd told himself he wasn't going to do this. It's not Coulson's fault that Clint's not worth sticking around for.

"Clint, look at me." Coulson sets his tablet aside, then reaches out to cover Clint's fidgeting hand with his own. Clint snaps his gaze up. "First of all, you're right. You don't work for me, and I'm sorry. Old habits die hard. Also, since I'm no longer your superior, I'd like it if you'd call me Phil." Clint's so surprised he can't do much more than nod, and Coulson carries on with a little smile. "I've already told you why I didn't contact you, and that's entirely my fault, not yours.  I let my own insecurities convince me that it was for the best. I'm sure it hasn't escaped your notice that I'm nearly a decade older than you. Before, I had the excuse that I didn't want to jeopardize our working relationship. After I was injured, well ... that was just one more mark against me."

Clint shakes his head. "I can't ... you're the most confident person I know. I've never seen you back down from anything or take shit from anyone, and you expect me to believe that I, what, make you nervous?"

Coulson smiles wryly. "We all have our weak spots. I think you've always been mine, to be honest. But first you were so skittish, and then I thought you were with Natasha - which she's recently cleared up - and then, the last couple months before New York, it seemed like you were avoiding me. I thought maybe you'd figured it out and didn't know how to let me down easily."

Clint laughs in disbelief. "I started avoiding you because I heard you had that cellist girlfriend. I just couldn't stand to hear about it; I was so jealous."

"Ah." Coulson looks embarrassed. "I assumed you knew she was fake. Natasha figured it out almost immediately. I was just tired of people telling me how I was going to die alone. I know they meant well, but everyone from Pepper Potts to the night janitor at HQ was trying to set me up with someone. It seemed more expedient to lie."

"We're such idiots," Clint mutters. He flips his hand over and interlaces it with Coulson's ... Phil's. "I don't know if I've come out and said it yet, but ... me too. I mean, I always thought you were too good for me. You were older and smarter and nothing ever seemed to trip you up. I just thought there was no point in even trying."

"Maybe it was for the best," Phil says. "I'm not saying I couldn't have done without nearly dying, or whatever has been going on with you the last few months - which we are still going to talk about - but I don't think either of us would ever have found the courage to say anything. And now we don't have to worry about SHIELD regs, and there's plenty of time to figure everything out."

"Yeah," Clint agrees, "unless we get arrested for treason or something."

"I think Stark has that covered," Phil says.

"Indeed," JARVIS chimes in. "In fact, your presence is requested upstairs in 30 minutes, at which time all will be explained."

"Damn it," Clint mutters. "I really hate that thing."

Coulson laughs. "Come on, help me up, and let's go see what our savior has in store."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to just go with the actors' ages in this, if anyone was wondering. And I do find Clark Gregg oddly adorable in his glasses, despite the fact that he's 20 years older than me.
> 
> Re: JARVIS, I just think that if you'd had someone playing in your head, an all-seeing voice that appears out of nowhere would be pretty disconcerting.


	20. Chapter 20

Clint and Phil agree to head back to the penthouse immediately, rather than wait the appointed half hour. Neither of them is too keen on the idea of walking into the middle of whatever Stark has planned without some kind of forewarning. Clint's expecting an army of lawyers and slick business types in suits, but when they arrive it's to the sight of Stark and Banner huddled together on a couch, sharing a laptop and jabbering about something science-y.

"Oh, hey," Stark says without looking up. "You're early."

"I was expecting ... not this," Clint says. He herds Phil into a chair, grinning at the other man's exasperated huff, then perches on the arm. "Didn't you say something about lawyers and PR people?"

Stark jabs a few keys, peering hard at the screen and showing no signs of having heard Clint. Banner elbows him in the ribs, and Stark jumps. "What? Oh." There's a pause, and Clint imagines Stark's brain rewinding like a cassette tape. "Like I was going to invite the bloodsuckers into my home? Please. Actually, I was all set for a video conference in my study" - he tilts his head toward a closed door off the living room - "but when I told Pepper what was up, she asked me to let her take care of it. She said it was her way of welcoming back Agent, until she could visit in person. Naturally, being the kind and giving man that I am, I agreed."

Phil and Banner both snort, then share a grin. Stark rolls his eyes. "So anyway, she's sorting things out as we speak."

"Sorting what out, exactly?" Phil asks. "What's the plan here?"

"Well ..." Banner snaps the laptop closed, ignoring Stark's exaggerated pout, and turns to Phil. "We were hoping you'd tell us."

"I'm sorry?" Phil scrunches up his face in confusion. It's pretty cute, and Clint kind of wants to pet him, no matter what Phil says about not being adorable. Then he decides, fuck it, and reaches over to run a hand through Phil's hair. He's half-expecting to be shoved to the floor, and it's a pleasant surprise when Phil melts into the touch. Clint doesn't miss the look Stark and Banner exchange, or the unholy glint in Stark's eyes, but luckily it's Banner who speaks again.

"As I understand it, you were the one who was supposed to be in charge of this team. Steve's the only one with any real leadership experience, but we need him on the front lines. Not to mention that certain people" - Banner gives Stark the side-eye - "could really benefit from a calming influence during battle."

"Wait, back up a minute," Clint interrupts. "Battle? I thought we were here to lay low."

"We are," Natasha says from behind him, and Clint nearly topples over. She perches on the other arm of Phil's chair, smirking. "Until everyone regroups and has time to rest and heal. But we can't just hide here forever, and I think we can all agree that with SHIELD in shambles, the world's going to need us."

"Which," Stark chimes in, "is exactly what the lovely Ms. Potts and her gaggle of professional ass-kissers are planning to tell anyone who'll listen. We blew it last time, everyone running off after the battle and not sticking around to help with the cleanup or make nice with the cameras."

"So," Phil says slowly, " you want the Avengers to clean up after SHIELD."

"Exactly!" Stark points at Phil triumphantly. "Exchange one shady quasi-governmental organization for a group of attractive heroes, get out there and let everyone see us doing good, and the crowd goes wild."

"Okay," Clint says with a pointed glance at Phil. "But that doesn't solve the problem of everyone out there who wants to kill us."

Stark shrugs. "Welcome to my world."

Natasha shoots Stark a halfhearted glare. "You're not looking at the other side of this. The bad guys might know who we are now, but we also know who they are. We've got all the legitimate SHIELD files plus the information Hydra was keeping from us. They mess with us, we start tracking them down and picking them off like flies."

"You're kind of terrifying, you know that?" Stark asks.

"You have no idea," Clint and Phil say in unison. They share a smile, and Stark's patience finally runs over.

"Okay," Stark says, waving his arms, "what is this? With the smiling and the touching? Has this been going on all along? And how did I not know about it?"

"Believe it or not," Phil says dryly, "you don't know everything. But no, it's ... new."

"And none of your business," Banner adds, dragging Stark to his feet. "Go check in with Pepper and give everyone time to think. We'll have to wait until Steve's here to discuss this more, anyway."

Banner shoves Stark toward the study before disappearing into the elevator with a wave. Clint feels Natasha staring at him, and he turns to her with a raised eyebrow.

"You two are sickening," she proclaims. "And I mean that in the nicest way possible."

Clint looks down and realizes he's still petting Phil's hair, letting the soft strands slip between his fingers. He starts to pull away, embarrassed, but Phil grabs his hand and threads their fingers together. Natasha says something else, but Clint can't look away from their entwined hands. He can't remember the last time someone touched him like this. Natasha shows him affection sometimes, when she can tell he desperately needs it, but he knows it makes her uncomfortable. He hasn't had sex in longer than he cares to think about, and even then it wasn't anything caring or gentle. No one looks at him - the loudmouth, the joker, the solitary sniper - and thinks that he might need this kind of quiet attention. Phil, though ... Phil just seems to know. Clint strokes his thumb over the long, graceful fingers tangled with his, listening to Phil and Natasha's soft chatter. The days ahead won't be easy, because nothing ever is, but for the first time in months he finds himself looking forward to what comes next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally had plans to take this through all the Avengers reuniting, and they would clean up that trafficking ring from the beginning, but after this story languished for a few weeks while I tried to convince myself to write another chapter, I realized that it was done. It was the first fanfic I'd written in years, and looking back I'm not totally pleased with it, but it got me writing again. Anyway, I'm happy enough having brought Clint and Phil this far.

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](http://brownc0at.tumblr.com/)


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